


no luxuries

by toomanyhometowns



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slam Poetry, Don't copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26449321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanyhometowns/pseuds/toomanyhometowns
Summary: beeawolf asked:Slam poetry AU, Connie and Maine![in which the author avoids writing any actual poetry]
Kudos: 2
Collections: tumblrfic exodus





	no luxuries

**Author's Note:**

> (It's the most organizational time of the Quar~) I'm moving ancient fic off tumblr onto AO3! Apologies for this one, I know nothing about slam poetry other than what I'd gleaned from Wikipedia to write this fic. The title is adapted (with apologies) from the title of an Audre Lorde essay [Poetry is Not a Luxury](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5TYHsEnkUBuZkV5aGJGMlpkMk0/view).

"Hey, York," Connie says on her way down the aisle.

"Connie, looking especially lovely today," he says, and flips a little salute her way. It looks potentially life-threatening because of the pile of chairs he's carrying, but York always seems to pull through.

"Don't police my performance of femininity," Connie shoots back, and cracks a smile when York giggles.

The Pelican is more like a home to Connie than any other venue. It's a little bare, but the high ceilings make her feel like she has room to breathe, to shout, to cry. This was the first place she slammed. She still remembers exactly how it felt to stand on shaking legs on stage on top of the world, and spit, _"Nine months later, Invention crawled out of Necessity and cried for its father."_ She can't even be embarrassed because the first line of the first poem you share isn't something to be embarrassed by.

Connie sits on the stage and drains half of her coffee in one go. There's a lot of set-up to do before tonight's slam, and even though Connie's going to be judging she feels compelled to help out now, too. It's good to take a minute to watch the pattern of workers buzzing around, to see where she can fit in.

"Keys?" Maine's voice is a toe-curling, thunderous rumble. He's standing with his head cocked to the side, arms crossed and his biceps doing that thing that make all the newbies assume he's a bouncer.

"I've got ‘em," Connie says, and fishes her massive key-ring out of her purse. She tucks it in the pocket of her slacks and gulps the rest of her coffee in three long sips. "Okay, where are we going?"

Maine looks to the side stage in answer. Connie's theory is that he rations out his words for poems—they build up potential energy in his head and then smash through his mouth in a kinetic flurry.

South thinks he was traumatized as a kid, but South can be kind of a dicksmack so Connie doesn't gossip with her. Well, not often, anyways.

They make their way backstage to raid the tech room and start setting up. The room is a disaster, but a familiar one.

"Are the Blues coming?" Connie asks, slipping two rolls of electrical tape around her wrist like bangles, or handcuffs, or chains. She scoops up the box of extension cords, which is labeled "ORANGES" and wonders who let a poet get at the equipment.

"Yeah," says Maine. "Reds too."

"Shit, so we really do need all the mics."

Maine shoulders a fifth microphone with a nod. They're both festooned with electrical equipment, so they're slow making their way out to the tech booth, then the stage.

"I'm saying Alpha shows, but clocks in at a minute and a half, max, and swears the whole time."

Maine shakes his head. "No bet."

"Yeah," Connie blows her bangs out of her face. Some hair gets stuck in her lip gloss, because makeup is great for hiding how you feel, but also a total pain in the ass. "I guess that's kind of his thing."

They start the basic tech set-up, plugging in what they think needs to be plugged and unspooling extension cords in vaguely the direction they guess they should go. This isn't their area of expertise, but Maine's been on the scene even longer than Connie, so they both know more or less how a stage ought to look.

"Flowers," Maine suggests. "Two minutes about his mother."

Connie considers it. "You're on, big guy. I bet it'll be all three, and I bet he's going to imitate birdsong again."

Maine chuffs a laugh, because that had been… memorable.

"Are you judging tonight, or just watching?" She rips off a few 2-inch-long strips and passes them to Maine so he can mark the X's on the floor for the performers.

"Judging," Maine says, big fingers pressing tape deftly to the ground. "You?"

"Same. I hope they're more polished than last theme night." Connie stretches, imagines all of the muscles along her arms and back twisting and twining along her skeleton. She throws a grin at Maine, a fierce, sticky thing. "I'm feeling mean."


End file.
